


Fold

by echoist



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 3.06, Angry!Stiles, Episode Tag, F/M, M/M, Motel California, confused!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:16:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoist/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I didn't write this to vilify Jennifer Blake in any way; I actually think her character is really interesting. I just wanted to write a bit of Sterek for you guys, and somehow it ended up being angry!Stiles calling Derek out for being a Failwolf, as usual. Whoops. Hope it came across all right.</p></blockquote>





	Fold

  

Stiles paces outside the converted warehouse, his hands clenching into fists at his side, over and over, trying to work up the courage to actually go inside. He opens the door and steps through into the lobby, such as it is, a long corridor leading to a freight elevator in the back. Stiles reaches out a hand, pulling it back twice before actually pressing the button for the top level.

'You can do this,' he says aloud. 'You're probably the _only_ one who can do this, so man up and just -'

The elevator doors open, and a familiar figure hurries out, her head ducked down, hands clutching at her purse. 'Ms. Blake?' Stiles questions, utterly thrown by her presence. It's incongruous, completely unexpected, and the sight of her derails his own pep talk.

'Stiles,' she answers softly, glancing up in confusion. 'You – you know Derek?'

The better question, Stiles thinks, is how do _you_ know Derek, but he doesn't give it voice. Instead, he lies. 'Yeah, my family – ah, my parents, anyway, they knew the Hales, and I mean – we're not exactly friends, but,' he trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

'You're checking in on him?' she supplies, shifting her weight from one foot to another.

'Checking in – wait, you're telling me Derek's up there? He's alive?' Stiles' knows his face registers complete shock, that he shouldn't give away any more than he already has, but he can't seem to mold his features back into a mask of nonchalance.

Ms. Blake nods slowly, looking as if she wants to say something, but remaining silent. Stiles' face begins to redden, he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, flushing the tops of his ears. 'How, ah, how do _you_ know Derek, that is, I mean, if you don't mind. Me asking.'

She licks her lips, her eyes wide and wary. 'He saved my life once,' she begins cautiously. 'And then yesterday, he – he just showed up, torn to pieces, and – I was trying to help. I didn't know what to do,' she adds, lowering her head once more and moving it slowly from side to side.

'Did he heal?' Stiles questions, squeezing his eyes shut, and could this conversation _get_ any more awkward? Not knowing how much information Derek had divulged, he's unsure of how to proceed.

She nods. 'He seems much better now,' she answers in a quiet voice, still not looking up.

'Ok,' Stiles answers, a fierce rage building up inside his chest. He tamps it down, looking away so Ms. Blake won't see the anger in his face. 'All right. That's – that's good.' He rocks back and forth on his heels, and they switch places, Stiles entering the elevator behind her as she shuffles toward the exit. She looks back once as the cage closes behind him, concern for Derek building as she sees the anger struggling to break loose in every line of Stiles' body.

_Derek can handle himself_ , Jennifer reminds herself, and hurries the rest of the way to her car, not looking forward to the process of cleaning off all the blood.

 

Stiles turns the key Isaac had given him and pushes the button for the top floor, tapping his feet nervously as the elevator slowly shudders its way toward the loft. He'd been prepared to dig through Derek's information, hoping against hope that Peter and Cora wouldn't be there to stop him. They needed to know what Derek knew – or knows, Stiles corrects his own thoughts. _He's alive_ , Stiles thinks, aiming a punch at the solid metal walls of the elevator and withdrawing his hand with a pained expression. In a few moments, Stiles promises himself, Derek will wish he wasn't.

The elevator doors open with a squeal, and Derek looks up from the large table in front of the windows. Late morning sunlight streams through the filthy glass, casting him in shadow. 'Stiles?' Derek questions, as if there's not a single reason in the world for him to be here.

'You _asshole_ ,' Stiles manages around a mouthful of hate. 'Everyone thought you were dead.' He steps purposefully into the room, each step resounding across the empty space. 'First you kick Isaac out onto the street, and now you just let your whole pack think -' He stops, wheezing slightly at the force of his words.

'It was better that way,' Derek answers, staring back down at the table covered in maps and scribbled notes.

'In what universe is this even remotely ok?' Stiles asks, pressing closer until he can lean his hands against the table, accidentally crumpling a sheet of loose paper beneath his fingers.

'They're not my pack, Stiles,' Derek answers in a gruff voice. 'It's not safe for them to be.'

'What, so you just throw them away?' Stiles asks, his voice canting up into a higher register, his jaw set in an angry line. 'You _made_ them, Derek, they're your responsibility!'

'You think I don't know that?' Derek responds with a sudden fury, jerking his head up to stare Stiles down with vivid red eyes. Stiles refuses to be moved, and a low growl rumbles from deep within Derek's chest. 'Deucalion wants me in _his_ pack, and to do that, he's trying to make me kill off my own. If I don't, he'll kill them first. It's – it's better this way.'

'You couldn't just tell them that?' Stiles shouts, pounding a fist against the table. Derek's fangs lengthen in his mouth, and Stiles knows he's pushing, knows this could be a serious mistake but he doesn't care. Not after what the last forty-eight hours have done to his friends. To Scott. 'God, I knew you were a selfish bastard,' Stiles asserts. 'But this is a whole new low, even for you. Did you tell Boyd to get lost, too?'

'What was I supposed to do?' Derek asks, a hoarse fury coloring his words in rough, angry hues. 'I _know_ they're my responsibility, and I'm trying to keep them out of this!'

'What were you supposed to _do?'_ Stiles echoes.'Oh, I don't know,' he retorts, sarcasm dripping from each word like venom. 'Maybe send Scott a text saying, 'Hey, don't worry, I'm not actually DEAD.' That would have been nice.'

'Why would Scott care?' Derek asks, a note of genuine puzzlement in his tone. 'I'm not his Alpha; he's made that abundantly clear.'

'Why would he – are you even hearing yourself right now?' Stiles flings his arms out to his side in disbelief. 'Scott wouldn't let himself heal because he thought you were dead and it was his fault. He could have died, twice over actually, but no, you don't think he gives a shit,' Stiles continues, his voice steadily rising with violent indignation. 'You have no idea what I've been through in the past two days because you'd rather let us all think you were gone. What, were you just going to skip town, and leave us to deal with all your shit? Was that your great plan?'

Derek watches Stiles' face transition through full tilt, righteous anger into bitterness, and as the silent moment drags on, into a ragged, red-eyed look of hurt and betrayal that he visibly wrestles down. His scent is a confused mix of sharp pain and foul, smoky confusion, and Derek hears the papers rustling beneath his fingers as Stiles struggles to hold himself in check.

'I've been keeping Scott together for two days, two really, unbelievably shitty days, so that he could hold Isaac and Boyd in line,' Stiles spits out. 'Do you have any idea how hard that was? To pretend like everything was going to be ok? To act like I didn't -'

'Didn't what?' Derek asks, steadfastly _not_ overturning the table to express his displeasure at being called on the carpet by a human. This human, especially.

'Like I didn't care,' Stiles replies, biting off the words and looking down. 'I don't handle losing people very well,' he mutters, the admission just loud enough for Derek to hear.

'Neither do I,' Derek answers, his jaw clenched. 'And being a part of my pack cost Erica her life. Do you think I wanted to see that happen to Boyd and Isaac, too?'

'Maybe you should let them make that decision for themselves,' Stiles reasons, his voice shaky. 'They chose the bite. They're willing to fight for you, though god knows I can't figure out why.' Derek turns around, pacing a few steps toward the windows. 'If you honestly want me to believe that you pushed them away to save them, then what was Ms. Blake doing here? You're fine involving _her_ in this mess, but not your own pack?'

'I didn't have much choice,' Derek answers without turning around. 'I needed – I wasn't healing. I would have gone to Deaton, but the Alpha pack was already there, and you – '

'I was gone,' Stiles finishes, something hollow and empty in his words. Derek nods reluctantly. 'Did you think I would have kept it a secret from Scott?' Stiles asks, the words scraping his throat like a gust of frozen wind.

'I wouldn't have asked you to,' Derek says quietly, and Stiles swallows around a lump in his throat.

'Well, good,' he answers, stammering a bit. 'Because I wouldn't have.' Stiles watches motes of dust collect and swirl in the light between them, the silence resting like a weight on Derek's shoulders. He can see it, in the way Derek slumps against the table, his head slightly bowed. Stiles glances over at the bed, sheets rumpled and stained with blood.

'If you don't think you can protect your pack from Deucalion,' Stiles ventures hesitantly. 'How do you think you're going to protect her?'

Derek's head lifts slowly as he turns around, catching the bitter, metallic tang of jealousy rising from Stiles' skin. Stiles glances hastily away from the unmade bed, grabbing a marker from the table and rolling it between his fingers to keep his hands from shaking.

'Jennifer's not involved in this,' Derek answers cautiously. 'They won't go after her.'

'Oh really,' Stiles retorts. 'Even when she turns up smelling like you?'

Derek glares, running a hand through his hair. Stiles can actually see him checking off a mental list of all the reasons he _doesn't_ have to justify his personal life to Stiles, of all people. 'It won't last,' Derek mumbles after a moment. 'Not like with the rest of you.'

Stiles slowly makes a circuit around the table's barrier, not entirely certain what he's about to do. 'The rest of us,' he comments, stopping just outside Derek's personal space. 'Do I smell like you?' he asks, and then instantly regrets it. Some days Stiles honestly wishes his brain to mouth filter wasn't permanently broken.

Derek glances at him, waiting a moment before responding. 'Not right now,' he answers, his eyes unfocusing for a moment. 'You smell like Scott, and Lydia and – gasoline?' he questions. Stiles just nods. Derek's eyes widen in recognition of another smell, buried beneath the weight of the others. 'Why do you smell like wolfsbane?' he hisses out through clenched teeth.

'Because,' Stiles answers, crossing his arms over his chest. 'While you were busy playing dead with my English teacher, someone poisoned Scott, Isaac, Boyd and Ethan with it. Do not make me tell you what went down last night, ok, because I really don't think I'm up for reliving it.'

Derek straightens up, eyes focused and intent on Stiles' face. 'Are they all right?' he asks, wishing he didn't sound quite so desperate for an answer.

'Yes,' Stiles answers in a tight, clipped voice. 'No thanks to you, they're fine. Or at least, as fine as they can be. Despite the fact that everyone except Isaac nearly tried to kill themselves as a result of being dosed with _poison_.'

Derek closes his eyes and rubs a hand across his face. 'Three werewolves,' he mumbles.

'Exactly,' Stiles snaps, and somehow he's managed to position himself much closer to Derek than he'd intended. He considers stepping back, but knows it would read as a show of submission, so Stiles stays exactly where he is, feet firmly planted on the floor.

'Why do you smell like gasoline?' Derek asks, his tone wary, as if not actually wanting to know the answer.

'Because Scott nearly drowned in it and then tried to set himself on _fire_ ,' Stiles chokes out. 'We snapped everyone else out of it using emergency flares, like a system shock, but Scott - I think - ' Stiles looks down, his breaths coming short and uneven as he tries ever harder to keep the horror at bay. 'I think he really meant it,' Stiles confesses, letting out a heavy, wet breath. 'He felt like a failure, like he couldn't keep anyone safe - and you were a big part of that.'

Derek turns away again, leaving Stiles to focus his miasma of conflicting emotions at his back. He reaches out a hand, gripping Derek's right shoulder and pulling him back around. He stops for a moment as his brain registers surprise at not having his hand bitten off. 'Look, you said it yourself,' Stiles argues, his hand finding an anchor on Derek's bicep. 'The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.'

'You're not a wolf,' Derek retorts. 'You don't have to be a part of this.'

Stiles stares up at him in open disbelief, his lips parted. 'Are you fucking kidding me?' he asks, clearly affronted. 'It's my fault! We never would have been a part of any of your werewolf shenanigans if I hadn't fucked up that night and left Scott alone.' Derek tries to take a step back from the raw anger and self-recrimination radiating from Stiles like rusted iron and the hot stench of recently struck matches. Stiles' slender hand on his arm somehow stops him, and Derek glances down at it as if to figure out why his hand is there.

'My best friend wouldn't have tried to kill himself last night if my morbid curiosity hadn't gotten him bitten in the first place. So yes, Derek,' Stiles sputters out. 'I _do_ have to be a part of this. I owe him that much.'

'You still haven't told me why _you_ smell like gasoline,' Derek asks in a low voice, his tone barely maintaining neutrality. 'If it was Scott who -'

'What was I going to do?' Stiles interrupts, his voice nearly cracking while his free hand clutches at the edge of the table. 'I told him if he was so set on dying, well,' Stiles pauses, drawing in a sharp breath. 'Then he was just going to have to take me with him.'

Derek opens his mouth and then closes it, trying to comprehend Stiles' words. He knew Stiles was reckless, had seen it in action countless times over, but this was brand new territory, and strangely terrifying. 'You see now?' Stiles asks softly, meeting Derek's eyes and refusing to back down. 'You might not think enough of us to call us pack, but we still have to stick together. It's our only chance of making it out of this mess alive.'

Derek lets out a long breath. 'You're going to tell them, aren't you?' he asks, looking down at his feet.

'You're damn right I am,' Stiles answers. 'Don't expect them to be too happy when they find out you've been alive all this time and couldn't be bothered to tell them.'

'How much more damage can I do?' Derek asks, throwing out his hands in exasperation. 'They already hate me.'

'Not as much as they probably should,' Stiles fires back. 'And as for causing damage – don't you dare test that theory. Not with my friends.'

'They don't hate me enough yet, so you're filling in the blanks, right?' Derek asks, his chin tilted slightly up so he can look down at Stiles.

'I don't hate you,' Stiles corrects a little too quickly, and he bites down on his tongue. He taps one foot nervously, moving his head about as if trying to decide what to say. 'It was hard enough, pulling Scott back from the edge last night when I already thought I'd lost you, too. Don't you dare do that to me again.'

Derek moves his head back in surprise. 'You -'

'Yes, goddamn it,' Stiles says, knowing that whatever Derek had been about to say, his answer would have been the same. He lifts his hand from the table to make a fist and punch Derek's chest, hard. Derek staggers back half a step in surprise before righting himself, staring down at Stiles as if he'd never really seen him before.

'But that's not the point,' Stiles sighs. 'We need you. There's a pack of Alphas out to get us, some kind of screwed up Druid killing people off, and you don't get to hide from that anymore than we do.'

'I wasn't trying to hide,' Derek deflects, reaching out a hand to pull Stiles in close before either of them fully realizes what he's doing.

'Yeah, well, you could've fooled me,' Stiles mumbles, resting his head beneath Derek's chin as if suddenly realizing that this was all a dream. He breathes in the scent rising hot from Derek's skin: sweat, old leather and a hint of perfume Stiles recognizes from the classroom. It makes his face burn, and he stamps down on that inconvenient spike of jealousy as hard as he can.

'What if the Alpha pack had ambushed us back here?' Derek asks. 'Boyd and Cora were hurt, Scott and Isaac too, if they'd followed us. I was – I couldn't have fought them off. And Allison wouldn't have been here to distract them this time. They could have killed all of us, and I wasn't going to let that happen.'

Derek's hands slide up Stiles' back, as if Jennifer had somehow managed to free up the tangle of knots beneath his chest that kept him from touching anyone he didn't intend to maim. Stiles leans into the press of his fingers, only now realizing how much he'd wanted it, after someone else had gotten there first.

'I'm sorry,' Derek breathes against his hair, and Stiles deliriously wonders if he's apologizing for more than just his poor judgment in combat.

'I need to know you're with us,' Stiles says, the words brushing against Derek's chest. 'And I'm not leaving until I'm sure you mean it.'

Derek rests his hands on Stiles' shoulders and pushes him back just far enough to see his face. 'I'm with you,' he promises, and Stiles wants to believe it so much it's a physical ache. He nods and takes a step back, nearly shivering at the loss of warmth.

'All right,' Stiles says. 'I'm going to go and try to patch up this clusterfuck, if it takes duct tape, chewing gum and all the Legos I can find.'

Derek can't hold in the short laugh that breaks out from his throat at the image. 'They may have five Alphas,' Stiles continues, 'but we've got you, three betas, and three humans who are pretty damn resourceful. We'll have two Alphas if Scott ever gets his shit together. And I'm not counting Peter because -' Derek rolls his eyes, and Stiles gestures to the same effect. 'My point exactly. If we can demonstrate enough solidarity, they won't risk attacking on our turf. It might - buy us some time, at least.'

Derek's eyes narrow, and Stiles holds up one finger. 'Yes, it's _our_ turf. That's part of the whole 'sticking together' plan, like it or not.' Derek nods, his lips curving down like a toddler who doesn't want to eat his vegetables.

'So,' Stiles stammers. 'I'm just going to – I'm going to go, now.' Derek nods, and Stiles takes a step back uncertainly. 'Because I'm apparently a werewolf troubleshooter now. It's what I do. You think that'll look good on my college applications?'

Derek glances away, and Stiles decides not to press the issue. 'Right. Leaving then.' Stiles makes his way to the elevator, pulling up short when he hears Derek speak up from behind him.

'Stiles,' he says, and he stands in place, one hand on the lever to pull back the cage. 'Thank you.'

Stiles nods without looking back and steps into the elevator, wondering if Derek's scent would linger on his skin as proof long enough for the others to believe.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't write this to vilify Jennifer Blake in any way; I actually think her character is really interesting. I just wanted to write a bit of Sterek for you guys, and somehow it ended up being angry!Stiles calling Derek out for being a Failwolf, as usual. Whoops. Hope it came across all right.


End file.
